August Break is Almost Over

Today is my last August Break post.

Monday I have some fun news to share.

Today's news is that my last Curator contribution went up today, a reprint of my essay, "Why I Shoot Film." I will very occasionally write for The Curator, but it's time for me to move on to other projects.

And let me say thank you to all of you who read my work and send encouragement. As always, I'm grateful.

Happy weekend!

Letting Go

It's hard to come to terms with how much time I wasted before I became a mother. With all the time in the world, I did very little. I wanted to write, but rarely ever did. Instead I read a lot, watched television a lot, slept late whenever I could, and generally took for granted that someday when I was struck with inspiration I would write.

I didn't know that my life as a writer would intersect so much with my life as a mother. In many ways, both began at the same time. And then this whole photography thing started. Sometimes all I can do is hang on for dear life.

I tend to be very demanding of myself, and I'm learning to let go, mostly because there is so little I can control. I have to be patient; there are still so many changes ahead. But it's nice to be able to look back, at something so simple as a photograph, and remember why I'm doing all this.

***
These photos are from Lily's birthday, on film.

Writing and the Lake House

I set up a chair, facing the lake, and read an essay I've been meaning to read for days. I have so much work to do, other work than reading and staring at the water, but Lily is asleep upstairs in the house and the lure of lapping water and peeking sun is too much. I have so much to write, so much to do -- when will I ever find the time?

What I didn't realize about living with my in-laws is that it would be so social. We eat together, converse into the evenings, share stories and laughs, and at the end of it all, I feel grateful but drained. I need quiet time, to reflect and recharge. Otherwise I end up biting everyone's heads off.

Almost none of the neighbors are out today, despite the holiday weekend. I'm glad. I can sit quietly and read. I can climb down on the rocks to inspect some seaweed floating by and touch the crisp water as it unrolls toward me. Everyone is inside and, most importantly, it's naptime, so Lily is asleep and I have a chance to relax.

I would like an entire day to stare out at the water, read, and write. Preferably without anyone talking to me. I mention this to my mother-in-law, and she tells me to wait thirty years. I don't have thirty years. I have a story to tell now. But what can I do? I work, I rest, and I trust that it will all come together eventually.

Of Poetry and Creative Nonfiction

A few months ago, Adam had our old computer reformatted, the same computer I bought upon entering graduate school, the one where all my documents from graduate school were saved. And, of course, because I didn't think of it in time, all of those documents were wiped away (all but my thesis, which luckily I had tucked into a folder on Google Docs). When I realized all that work was gone, I was pretty bummed. It's not information I accessed often, but it was part of my story, a part that is long gone.

On Sunday, when we pulled everything down from the attic, I rummaged through boxes of papers -- Christmas cards, letters, photographs from college. At the bottom of one box were three folders and a three-inch stack of papers, all work from graduate school. I was elated.

Two of the folders are from classes that I'd rather forget -- Sociolinguistics and Bibliography Methods. The other folder is from my first poetry workshop in 2003, and the stack of paper contained the many drafts of my thesis (with notes!) and two papers from my creative nonfiction class.

Yesterday I sat down and read through all of it, laughing at how terrible some of those early poems were and smiling over some of the interesting images therein. Those poems were written before I had a direction for my thesis. They were little experiments, some which were failures and some which were delightful.

Of all of it, the most interesting for me to reread is a paper I wrote on Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and Vivian Gornick's Fierce Attachments for my creative nonfiction class. Now that I primarily write nonfiction and not poetry, what I wrote in this essay seems particularly salient.

I mentioned Mimi Schwartz who, in her essay "Memoir? Fiction? Where's the Line?", writes that writers of memoir should strive for emotional truth and not worry so much about adhering to perfectly recreated, exact, absolute memories. Then I quote John Irving who reminds the readers of his book Trying to Save Piggy Sneed, "Please remember that all memoir is fiction." About Eggers' book, I wrote:

His life is not seen through a perfectly clear, sharp lens but rather a cloudy, fragmented one, and that the dialogue, characters, and events that have been fictionalized have been changed only in ways that do not distract from the storyline. These elements, in many cases, strengthen the writing because they emphasize the important aspects and collapse the unnecessary.

Why is this so important? Well, I have often started essays about my life and got hung up on the details of it all, which I can't remember. I don't have a tape recorder in my pocket to record all of my conversations; I don't carry a notebook in my pocket and jot down every detail of life as it's happening. Dave Eggers' memoir is just about as radically fictionalized as a memoir could be, but it's still the story of his life according to him. Isn't that what memoir is? It's what the writer felt, saw, and remembered, not necessarily the exact, objective truth of what happened. Who knows the exact, objective truth anyway?

This give me courage. I can tell my story the way I remember it. I can make stuff up if it fits with what I remember. I don't have to beat myself up about the details. I also have courage to start writing poems again, because if I could write bad poems and share them with twelve strangers in a workshop, I can write bad poems again and trust that, with practice, they'll only get better.

Telling Stories

I spent most of my day grading essays. After a week off for spring break, preceded by a week shortened because of Mardi Gras, I left the entire stack for today. Twenty-two essays total.

The essays were personal narratives. Each student wrote three pages about a significant event that somehow changed him or her. It's incredible what they will disclose in an essay: pregnancy, abortion, religion, sickness, death. I admire many of them for their bravery, and I feel privileged to be among each essay's few readers.

What struck me most as I read through the stack was the balance each writer took on showing and telling. Most students spend too much time telling. They explain why someone they loved was important or why they came to a certain belief. Even after much class discussion about showing and letting the story stand, they still rely on telling.

What's most interesting about this is that it's usually their first paragraph or two that does all the telling. Instead of jumping into the story, they write an explanation. Over and over I wrote: This is all telling. Your essay should start here (with an arrow pointing to the second paragraph). Then I would feel guilty that they won't have the time to revise these essays because so many of their stories are beautiful.

It reminds me of what William Zinsser wrote about the importance of writing our stories even if they will never be published:

Sorry to be so harsh, but I don’t like people telling other people they shouldn’t write about their life. All of us earn that right by being born; one of the deepest human impulses is to leave a record of what we did and what we thought and felt on our journey. 

Each of our stories is important, which makes it all the harder to write comments on students' papers when they write something heartbreaking and beautiful but that's riddled with grammatical errors. Still, I feel privileged and grateful, and mindful of how important it is for me to tell my story.

Give It Time

Lily and I sit on the dining room floor rolling trucks back and forth to each other. It's been a rough week. There is so much I have needed to say but couldn't. Either there was no one to listen or there were no words -- neither option better than the other.

I sat down today to work on an essay I started last week, about one of these things I've needed to say. When I get to the computer, very little comes out. I start questioning everything, mostly that what I have to say has any value. I often think of essays I should write, things that I need to work out in my own life. I make notes so I don't forget. 'Maybe it's still too fresh,' I think. 'Maybe I need more time.' I give it time.

'Maybe I'm too self-aware,' I think. I spent the second half of last year working through issues in my life, journaling and talking to a counselor. I start to panic when I can't remember what I learned in graduate school and resist the urge to get angry that I all but walked away from my writing for some time. But one thing I learned in counseling last year is how to talk myself down off the ledge, so to speak. 'You're a writer,' I remind myself. 'You will write.'

What does that mean? I roll the truck across the floor to Lily and wonder what I should share and what I shouldn't. I can rattle off the names of poets who unapologetically wrote about the nitty gritty details of their lives. I used to believe I'd be one someday, both a poet and a writer who wrote truth no matter how much it hurt. Now I wonder who I will hurt when I write what I need to write.

Most days I am happy with what I have: a husband and daughter who adore me, writing and teaching gigs that use my talents, a growing and insistent passion for photography, and an insatiable love for God and truth. But there is this nagging in my soul to write about my life, where I've come from and where I'm headed, what I've endured and how I have grown.

Maybe now is not the time. Maybe now is simply the time I sit on the floor with my daughter and roll a truck to her and laugh when it passes her by. I watch her crawl across the floor, turn it toward me, and squeal, "Wheeee!" as it rolls back toward me. She inches her way toward me, another truck in hand, until our legs are touching, then rolls the truck a mere two inches and again squeals, "Wheeee!"

Freelance Writer, Editor, Photographer

Today has not gone as planned. I thought I was going to tell you all about how much I want a Holga camera from Urban Outfitters. I was going to tell you that it's only $48 and then I was going to beg for volunteers to contribute to my Holga fund.

But no. Today, the day before the semester starts, I found out that one of my classes was canceled due to low enrollment, a slight blow to my family's economic well-being.

Today I also dropped off my slow-going roll of black and white film for processing at a local camera shop (not Walgreens, where I usually get my film processed). When I returned home with the negatives and the disc of photo scans, I was assaulted by all of the scratches on the scans. Look at these photos closely and you can see the scratches. See the one on my nose? And the white streak across the photos of Lily and Adam? It's more infuriating than losing one of my classes. And now I have to go back, ask what happened, and see if they can fix it. Irritating.

Anyway, about work . . .

Surprisingly, I have a peaceful feeling about it. Maybe it's an answer to prayer, an answer to the question of what do I with my life. One door is closing (well, halfway), and who knows what might open. I already have two leads on freelance work that came within minutes of learning about my canceled class. God's providence? I think so.

So I'm here to say, loud and clear, that I am available for freelance writing and editing work. I am also available for freelance photography work. If you have a lead, let me know.

I'm also here to say that I'll take any and all contributions to the Lindsay Crandall Holga Fund. Your contribution will ensure you receive a complimentary print or two of any of my photographs. And who doesn't want that?

Passion & Work

This is Lily's first finger painting. It has nothing to do with the rest of this post.

This was a big week for me, publishing-wise. I had two articles published in the local paper, one on a botanical drawing class with a local artist (I wish I was taking this class!) and the other about a local feed-the-homeless program called Loaves & Fish. Then, today, my latest essay went up at The Curator: "The Year of Journaling Fearlessly."

I'm learning that I really love to write. If I had my choice I would be doing a lot more of it, for pay and for myself. But, as you know, I also love photography and often consider what it might be like to have a photography business. Maybe sell prints (do people buy prints?) or shoot weddings. But I'm also a teacher, a job that is satisfying and also brings in a steady paycheck. But with teaching comes grading, and grading is a drag.

And I'm also a mom.

What a mix, right? I told Adam today that sometimes I'm very grateful to have such diverse interests because it never gets boring. On the other hand, I often feel unfocused and wish I had one passion that I was pursuing wholeheartedly, instead of a bunch of mini-passions.

The last few weeks, while I've had a break from teaching, I've been doing a lot of soul searching about all of this. I wish I could say that I've come up with the secret formula to determine how I should spend my time, the right mix of passion and income that somehow doesn't forsake family and friends. Has anyone figured this out? I haven't.

I will say that all the thinking and journaling and daydreaming I've done has helped me clarify where I might want to go. I want to write. I want to take photographs. I want to teach. I want to be a good mom. And I'm already on that path, so I just need to keep working hard and living what I love and have faith. What more can I do?

Why I Love Shooting Film

Today I have an essay up at Art House Blog on why I love shooting film. I picked up another roll this morning, and I am always in awe -- not so much at my skills as what film can do. It's magical.

A mere two weeks are left in this year and I have decided that in 2011 I won't be continuing the 365 Project. Of course I'll still be shooting both of my cameras a lot, but it's gotten to the point where at the end of the day I haven't taken a picture and I end up taking a picture of the table. Again. I attribute a lot of my growth as a photographer to that project, and highly recommend it to anyone and everyone, but it's time for me to take a break.

I'm kind of relieved, actually. I am not taking on any crazy year-long challenges for 2011, which as my friend Jessie pointed out is actually a year-long challenge in itself. Haha. At any rate, I'm worn out. I want to take photos when I want and read books when I want and knit when I want. Take that, 2011!

Small Gestures

This article in the The Chronicle of Higher Education is disturbing. It's not so much disturbing because it's written by a person who writes academic papers for pay, though that's troubling. It's not so much disturbing because this person has written graduate papers and dissertations for students who have gone on to actually graduate, though that's troubling too.

What's most troubling is the example that threaded throughout the article, a graduate student in business who cannot cobble together a coherent sentence in her emails: "You did me business ethics propsal for me I need propsal got approved pls can you will write me paper?" Read through the article and it gets much, much worse.

To be fair, this person might be a non-native speaker of English and doesn't understand what most English speakers know about syntax, grammar, and punctuation. But I have to ask, how did she get into graduate school? How did she get through an entire undergraduate career unable to write an email, much less a term paper, and actually finish well enough to be accepted into a graduate program? I'm perplexed.

I've seen students who don't take the time to write a proper email. They don't use capital letters or punctuate or sign their emails with their names. They write to me like I'm their pal. I've also seen international students who struggle with writing but it's painfully obvious, in email and in essays. I always ask my students to write in front of me, longhand, so I can gauge their abilities (or lack thereof), but also so I can better detect inconsistencies in students who can't put together a coherent sentence but turn in stellar work. Something doesn't add up.

When I brought this all up to Adam we got into a discussion about how the way we present ourselves says a lot about how we feel about ourselves and other people. When I write an email and use proper punctuation and appropriate tone, when I respond in a timely fashion and I'm cordial, I give the receiver cues about who I am. It's the same with how I dress or shake hands or make eye contact. So much is embedded in these small gestures.

It's like dressing up for a holiday. Growing up we always dressed up for Thanksgiving or Christmas, and we still do even now. A few years ago I went to two different friends houses on Christmas day and found myself to be the only one wearing slacks. Everyone else was dressed like it was Saturday. I was taken aback.

There's something special about getting dressed up for special occasions and for other people. There's something special about writing a proper email or making sure your hair is brushed before walking out the door. We do them and, like it or not, they are received by others as a reflection of who we are and how we feel about ourselves. So, I suggest we do them well and with kindness, as we send and receive, and revel in treating ourselves well and kindly, too.

Off the Ledge

You would think that when the house is quiet in the middle of the afternoon I would get a lot done. But when the house is quiet all I want is to sit and enjoy the solitude. It's not that our house is particularly noisy, but it's a very small house and we're all on top of each other all the time. When it's quiet, the quiet is good.

This week I took an important step in my creative life: I entered a photography contest. But I almost didn't. I almost convinced myself it didn't matter and that I'd never win, mostly because I don't have fancy equipment or stellar Photoshop skills. I talked myself up onto the ledge, where I believed that my work isn't enough like everyone else's work to compete, and then talked myself down. Isn't part of being creative to be an individual? Why should I worry about being like everyone else? Reading this helped.

I struggle with this in my writing, too. I'll write something I'm proud of and immediately try to convince myself that it is awful and it won't resonate with anyone and no one will care. That has never been the case. Why worry about this?

I entered this photo. It will be on display at the mall for a week, along with the other entries. I don't expect to win, though I'd love to, of course. I'd love to do a lot of things. And this is a small, though important, step in the right direction.

Thinking about Essays

The text I'm teaching this semester is riddled with political essays, and the first section covers the First Amendment as it relates to pornography, racism, and a flurry of internet issues. The other day, one of my students asked me if we were only going to read about the First Amendment, which prompted me to admit that I'm by no means equipped to discuss the First Amendment at length. I teach writing, not government. But political issues are very polarizing, and I suppose the textbook writers think it's important for students to wrestle with these issues as they learn to write.

What I'm wrestling with goes beyond what the text actually says. I'm thinking about the craft. Teaching academic and research writing is not hard. It's quite formulaic and can be deduced to a series of simple steps. If you've ever written a research essay, you know what I mean.

Then there are the essays in the textbook. They aren't linear. They aren't easy. What I am seeing as I read through them is that they are more exploratory than definitive. They delve into issues, but don't necessarily offer solutions. They raise questions. They make the reader think deeper.

The problem I'm having with them is at a direct contraction to my own writing. When I start writing an essay, I don't always know where I'm going. If I do know, I often end up somewhere very different than I planned. I take the word essay -- in French, essai, to try -- very seriously. Try. See what you come up with. Explore. See what happens.

As a writer, I like that. I like the freedom of knowing that I don't have to have a point when I write. That doesn't diminish what I have to say. As a teacher, though, I want the essay to have a point and a linear thought pattern. It makes my job easier. It gives me a clear pathway. Then when I discuss what we've read with my students, the pressure is off. Instead, this semester, I'm left with some ambiguity and open-ended discussion.

So, I am learning more about craft, and they are learning to be thoughtful readers. And in the midst of all of it, we are batting around some good old American ideas. Good things, I think.

Interior Life

If you've read my blog for any length of time or had a conversation with me in the last year, you know that being creative and living a creative life is what I strive for every day. In the last few weeks I've been working through my own struggles -- talking, writing, working it out. All of it.

When I sat down to write my essay for the Curator, all I could find to write was the same stuff I grapple with every day. What does it mean to be healed? What does the creative life look like? Why do I feel such a strong need to write and make and find beauty?

This is what came out.

And, no, I don't have a motorcycle.

Bone Marrow

I spent the better part of this morning writing an article about a woman who donated bone marrow from stem cells. She got a bunch of injections that stimulated the growth of bone marrow cells, then they harvested them like they do plasma from blood. She sat hooked up to a machine that pulled her blood from one arm, filtered out the cells, then returned the blood to her other arm. It isn't as invasive as donating actual bone marrow, which entails knocking you out and drawing out the liquid marrow from your pelvic bone. Ouch.

I had no idea that donating had changed. Now I'm thinking about putting myself on the national bone marrow registry, especially if it isn't too much more involved that giving blood (which I try to do regularly). Still there is more discussion to be had around here, but I figure there isn't much at stake. Except to maybe save someone's life, that is.

Starting tomorrow, we are in vacation mode. My mother-in-law is visiting for a few days, then Adam and I drive to New York with her and Lily following us in a plane. Then two whole weeks of hanging out by Lake Ontario. Two. whole. weeks.

I'm trying to block out the fact that I'll have to be in full work mode when we return. Two classes, three times a week, and being a mama is sure to keep me busy this fall.

A Friday for Poetry

I won't blather on about how once upon a time I was a poetry fanatic or how I went to graduate school to learn the craft of writing poems. I haven't written a poem in two years. When I recently sat down to write one, I wrote two terrible lines and immediately deleted them. I quickly realized that if I ever want to write poetry again I need to spend more time reading it and, more importantly, listening to it.

So I wrote a little essay about why poetry should be read and heard and appreciated for its beauty. You can read it on The Curator this week.

And while you're at it, here's a poem for you. Enjoy!

"How to Be a Poet" by Wendell Berry

i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.

ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

750 Words

I've been trying something new this week. At the end of the day, once Lily has gone to bed and it's quiet, I have been writing. I open my browser to 750 Words, a website based on the morning pages in The Artist's Way, and blather on about how I don't feel like writing and I don't know why I'm bothering to write these 750 words and how long it takes to write 750 words. Of course, there may be variations, but it's mostly a pile of resentful drivel that I'm making myself type out.

And then I write about a page of "real writing".

But a page is becoming more and more each night. The words are coming easier, and I've sort of let go of the notion that what I write has to be any good. I just need to write.

I think a lot of my hangups about writing, all that chatter in my head that stops me from actually getting any words down, are coming out when I puke up my 750 words. Like pre-writing therapy, only no one ever gets to see it and I don't have to deal with it once it's out. It feels pretty good.

And I'm shocked that it actually works.

Anatomy of an Afternoon

Because it's good to get away for a bit, and because I'm still feeling the postparty crash, and because I don't want to end up a runaway mom, I had to get out of the house yesterday. Alone. So I packed the computer and a notebook and headed to the bookstore.

I perused the magazines and grabbed a copy of Writer's Digest because Anne Lamott is on the cover and Mothering. The interview with Lamott is brief, about her return to writing fiction. Her best advice for writers is still to write sh*tty first drafts and to write every day, the same advice she wrote about some seventeen years ago in Bird by Bird.

Mothering has a lengthy article on cloth diapering, one I'd recommend to anyone who is thinking about cloth diapering in the future. It's quite comprehensive and takes up about twenty pages. It's followed by another article on Elimination Communication (or How to Teach Your Infant to Use the Potty). The gist is you figure out when your child is "eliminating", make a cue noise like psssss, and hold the kid over the toilet. It's Pavlovian baby training, and it makes a lot of sense. Still, it's weird.

After grabbing a coffee, I flipped open my computer and read this chapter from The Artist's Way. The book is about unlocking your creativity and it's predicated on two things: morning pages (handwriting three pages first thing every morning -- no filter, just writing) and artist dates with yourself. It's really simple and it's supposed to give your inner artist a chance to play. If you're a creative type, you should give it a glance.
Through my new obsession I learned that it's 'Roid Week on Flickr. In order to participate you have to have an actual instant film camera, not just an app on your smartphone, so I'm out. But I did a quick peek on eBay to see how much Polaroid cameras cost, and they are cheap! The kicker is that the film is expensive (because they didn't make it for a while, though I think that's not true anymore). After telling Adam, he said his parents might still have their old Polaroid and maybe I could have it. Um, yes, please.

In the meantime, my Droid will have to do.

Work

From Walking on Water:

I believe that each work of art, whether it is a work of great genius or something very small, comes to the artist and says, "Here I am. Enflesh me. Give birth to me." And the artist either says, "My soul doth magnify the Lord," and willingly becomes the bearer of the work, or refuses.

-Madeleine L'Engle

You must once and for all give up being worried about successes and failures, Don’t let that concern you. It’s your duty to go on working steadily day by day, quite quietly, to be prepared for mistakes, which are inevitable, and for failures.

-Anton Chekov

When I was a kid I wanted to be a cartoonist for Disney. I thought that they drew all their animated features onsite at Disney World, and that I would have to move to Florida to offer my talents in a castle in the Magic Kingdom. I drew a lot of pictures, some from my own imagination and others I copied (freehand, mind you) from the VHS cases of The Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast. Often I would write stories to accompany my drawings, but mostly I would be found with art supplies in hand.

I was dedicated.

When I encountered the inevitable whirlwind of female adolescence, I traded my art supplies for pens and notebooks and wrote very bad poems every night before bed. I immersed myself in poetry, reading and reading and writing. My ritual was only skipped if I happened to be out gallivanting with friends, but the next available night, I was curled up in bed scribbling in my notebooks.

I was dedicated.

In college I didn't write much. But I went on to get my MA in creative writing, mostly because I didn't know what else to do when I finished my undergrad. I didn't throw myself headlong into my writing. I struggled to have one poem completed by Thursday night's workshop. Surrounded by other creative types and my looming thesis of fifty or so poems kept my juices flowing just enough. When I was done, I was done. I didn't write anymore.

Since I read Walking on Water, I've revisited L'Engle's ideas frequently: Work. Listen. Pray. Work. Keep at it. Don't stop. And though the work of mothering Lily is important, I've been feeling more and more that I need to write, not for any other purpose than to get words on the page and free up my mind from the clutter that's rattling around in there. Journaling is good, and maybe that's all I do. I don't need a higher purpose and I don't (necessarily) need an audience -- I just gotta get something down. Every day. I have to follow this wherever it is taking me.

Curator Friday

It's Curator Friday, and my contribution is up. It's a few of my thoughts on teen flicks, particularly Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Clueless, both directed by Amy Heckerling. Oh, and a couple weeks ago I had another little offering, a love song for autumn. Take a peek!

Here We Go, NaNo

I signed up for National Novel Writing Month this year. I did it in 2007, and actually completed the 50,000 word requirement. What I wrote was hideous and, later when I tried to revise it, I found I couldn't even condense what I'd written into a decent short story. It was that bad. The focus of NaNoWriMo is quantity, not quality, of words. Just get what you can down and then -- aha! -- tell everyone that you did it, that you wrote 50,000 words of fiction and you are that cool.

So I signed up again this year but figured I'd cheat and modify it. What if I just plan to write 50,000 words in November, without the common thread of a novel? What if I just sit my butt in the chair and write? That was my plan.

Ahem, it is my plan. I have plenty stacked against me -- the last month of teaching, my mom's visit next week, Thanksgiving, being dead-tired exhausted from having mild insomnia, taking care of the babe -- so I don't know what to expect. And, though I don't want to always be involved in a project, I'm giving this one a shot. Why? Because I'm a writer. Because when I read this, it made my heart leap. Because I studied writing in college, then quickly abandoned it in favor of "living" (aka. watching TV and drinking beer).

Most importantly, I plan to do it because it's something that's mine, that makes me feel like myself, that makes me feel alive, and that should, in turn, make me a better version of myself.

Feel free to check on my progress and be sure to root me on!